Murder in the Garden of God (11 page)

Men like Paolo Giordano were above the law, a fact that had always grated on Cardinal Montalto, but now the injustice had landed in his own lap. Moreover, Grand Duke Francesco de Medici was Cardinal Montalto’s patron, paying him an annual subsidy to make up for the poor cardinal’s pension that Pope Gregory had yanked two months earlier. The grand duke’s brother, the powerful Cardinal Ferdinando de Medici, was Montalto’s supporter and friend, and a pope-maker in the next conclave. Montalto could hardly shriek for their brother-in-law to be punished.

As a distant relative of Paolo Giordano, King Philip II of Spain also had a say in the matter. If Gregory made any noise about punishing Paolo Giordano, both King Philip and Grand Duke Francesco could hold up trade agreements with the Papal States, or neglect to hand over Church rents. The duke of Bracciano was just too politically connected for the pope to do anything to him. And, with his close connection to monarchs and influential cardinals, Paolo Giordano could prevent Montalto from ever becoming pope if he believed any vengeance whatsoever might be in store.

Cardinal Montalto also had to consider his fellow members of the Sacred College, men who would vote for the next pope whenever Gregory finally kicked the bucket. It was well known that cardinals would not elect a vengeful man to rule over them. Such a pope would surely revenge himself on his cardinals if they irritated him. Cardinals wanted to elect a kindly, easygoing pope, who would let them have their own way, a man who would quickly forgive their misdeeds, and generously give them money and power.

If Cardinal Montalto, within hours of his nephew’s assassination, could show himself calm and forgiving, this opportunity might eventually propel him onto the papal throne. Such an impressive display of Christian forgiveness could not be overlooked. Once pope, he would be able to wreak vengeance any way he wanted.

And so the cardinal, ravaged on the inside, put on a calm demeanor. Perhaps he studied his face in the mirror before he left his bed chamber to make sure he showed no sign of emotion whatsoever. He wore the same good-natured yet dignified mask he had put on years earlier when he realized the surliness he had displayed as Venetian inquisitor would prevent his ascension to the papacy.

While a cardinal usually wore a red robe called a sottana, under a knee-length white linen shirt called a rochet, his mourning dress was a fuchsia sottana with no rochet. Those who thought they might see Cardinal Montalto that morning surely expected him to wear mourning. But Montalto put on his usual red robes and rochet and stepped into his carriage to clatter to Saint Peter’s as if nothing untoward had occurred in the night.

“Montalto appeared as usual in consistory,” reported the chronicler, “and was among the first to arrive, and in him no disturbance was apparent. And the cardinals who, because of the bitterness of the situation, wanted to give him some words of consolation, marveled at his calm response… When Pope Gregory XIII, who had learned everything, entered in consistory and rested his eyes on the face of Cardinal Montalto, he was seen to cry for compassion, without the cardinal even changing color in appearance. The marvel grew when, at the beginning of the consistory, Montalto went to an audience with the pope, as usual, to talk of much business, and his Holiness, before the cardinal spoke, was seen to cry copious tears from his eyes, and consoling him, promised him the most severe justice.”

And now came the cardinal’s papal moment. “Cardinal Montalto gave him many thanks for the very kind affection of his Holiness and begged him insistently not to make any inquiry of any kind about this crime, pardoning with good will whoever had been the author, and said it would never have occurred if it weren’t the will of God. Then he immediately changed the subject to discuss business.”
⁴

Some of the spectators of this astonishing scene had a hard time believing Montalto’s sentiments were genuine. A
relatione
reported, “While this discussion was going on between the pope and Montalto, the courtiers were studying the faces of both of them, and the eye of the courtier is only with difficulty deceived. They did not exaggerate when affirming that Montalto was not at all moved by the pope’s tears, and had great serenity of expression, and seeing the signs of the pope’s true compassion, he maintained the same composure the entire time that they spoke. This self-discipline was shocking to the others as well as the pope.”
⁵

His strategy worked. “His faith obtained the infinite admiration not only of the pope but also of the cardinals present. And his Holiness after the consistory said to Cardinal Buoncompagni, his nephew, ‘He was a learned monk, and now he is a good cardinal, and if he doesn’t die he will be a great pope.’”
⁶

Gregorio Leti reported, “Although his nephew had been assassinated that night, he went to the consistory the next morning, and though he seemed that day to have more chagrin than usual, he never wanted to ask the pope for justice for the assassination, and one could have believed that [Francesco’s] death was indifferent to him, and that he had not been strongly attached to his nephew.”
⁷

Monsignor Alessandro de Medici, ambassador of the grand duke of Tuscany to Rome, sat down that morning and wrote his master about the events, though he got a few facts wrong. “Last night about two hours after sunset,” he wrote, “an unknown person went to the house of Signor Francesco, nephew of Cardinal Montalto and husband of the Corambona, under the pretext of giving him a certain note. And he was taken outside his house and conducted to a place where he was killed by guns and many other wounds, and was found spread out on the ground at the gate of Cardinal Sforza’s garden at Monte Cavallo. As of now the authorities do not know who committed this crime, though much invented gossip is being spread. And Montalto his uncle, despite all this, went to the consistory this morning, perhaps wanting to show how few family affections he had.”
⁸

According to time-honored tradition, upon the death of a cardinal’s close relative, the Sacred College, prelates, and nobles of Rome rendered condolence visits. Cardinal Montalto sat on his cardinalatial throne in his long audience chamber, receiving his guests. When someone asked him if he knew where this horrible blow had come from – meaning, the duke of Bracciano – he replied, “From God, and He takes from me all human consolation so that I rely on celestial ones.”
⁹
Others urged him to investigate the criminals and punish them. He replied, “I am not so tender with my relatives that I will sin through a vendetta. Everything is God’s will.”
¹⁰

One
relatione
author reported, “To everyone, whether cardinals and prelates, or servants and friends, who expressed their pain and sadness, the cardinal conversed briefly on the instability of human life, affirming this with verses and sayings of the Scriptures and holy fathers, and consoling the people who came to console him. Then he changed the subject into areas less disturbing, to public and private business.”
¹¹

According to Gregorio Leti, Cardinal Montalto’s response to condolences was, “Let us thank God that everything is his will.”
¹²
To one cardinal’s heartfelt tears, he said, “I thank you for your kind heart, and you are crying much more than I have.”
¹³

When another cardinal exhorted him to revenge himself for the murder, and peppered him with questions as to who could have ordered the assassination, Montalto replied calmly, “God will punish the criminals.”
¹⁴
Of all his statements after his nephew’s murder, this last one seems to have revealed his true sentiments. One way or another, those involved would die horribly when God’s justice prevailed.

The cardinals and nobles of Rome were not certain if his forgiveness stemmed from saintliness or cowardice; considering his vile birth, perhaps he had no sense of family honor. Others believed the cardinal’s forbearance was deceit designed to help him ascend the papal throne, “resentment being a clear killer to the future pontificate.”
¹⁵

Rome was most astonished when the reputed murderer himself rolled up to Villa Montalto. Certainly it would have made Paolo Giordano look guilty if he had been the only Roman nobleman
not
to offer condolences; still, people were shocked at his audacity. The fat duke climbed down from his carriage and ambled into the villa to lament the atrocious crime. Those visitors who had been dawdling in the courtyard immediately ran inside to witness what was about to unfold.

According to the chronicler, Montalto’s “meeting with Signor Paolo Giordano Orsini was watched more closely than any other, as according to public conjecture, he was attributed with having committed this murder. People thought that Montalto, despite his self-restraint, would have to show some indication when the two met.”

But studying Cardinal Montalto’s face as he spoke with Paolo Giordano, they “could not see any sign whatsoever that Montalto suspected him. He accepted the polite compliments of Signor Paolo with an extraordinary serenity of expression and an affability of conversation.”
¹⁶

Finally the duke took his leave, and the cardinal did him the honor of walking with him downstairs to the threshold of the house, all the while thanking him for his graciousness. In mounting his coach, the duke smiled and said to one of his servants, “Truly he is a great monk.”
¹⁷
Paolo Giordano must have believed that either Cardinal Montalto did not suspect him, or that he was too afraid of him to seek justice. So far, the duke’s plan was going perfectly.

But Cardinal Montalto’s plan was also going perfectly, and the irony could not have been lost on him that Paolo Giordano’s despicable murder of his nephew could pluck him out of the Sacred College and place him on the papal throne. Montalto’s dignity in the face of horror “won the admiration of all Rome which expected different demonstrations from a cardinal so gravely offended.”
¹⁸

He is a living saint,
the people of Rome said.
An incarnation from the New Testament. Truly Cardinal Montalto could say of his nephew’s murderers, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Here is a man who renders good for evil, and offers blessings and forgiveness instead of vengeance. And if he becomes pope, he will not take our money and give it to his relatives.

Now there remained the question of what to do with Vittoria. Because she had had no children with Francesco, she had no remaining ties to the Peretti family, and she certainly didn’t want to stay there with the children and the chickens. And Tarquinia wanted her daughter back home where this time around she could make a truly splendid marriage for her that would boost all of the family’s fortunes. Tarquinia had recently engineered another rise in the world, moving to a larger, newer palazzo on the Via de Scrofa, just a block away from their old house and in between the Pantheon and the Piazza Navona. Such a home would be a more suitable place for a duke to woo his future duchess.

Cardinal Montalto allowed Vittoria to return to her parents with all her clothing, gold, jewels, and other gifts from the Peretti family. This was a generous gesture, as legally the cardinal was required only to return the dowry, which he had already done years earlier. He could have sent her home with only rags on her back.

On April 25, Vittoria’s brother Mario galloped into town with more tragic news. Her brother Scipione, who had been in the service of Cardinal Sforza, had died of an illness in the town of Macerata. The condolence visits started up afresh at the Accoramboni palace, though Vittoria spent most of the time bedridden, emotionally exhausted from having lost her husband and her brother in the space of a week. Though Tarquinia was deeply saddened by the loss of her son, she couldn’t afford to languish in bed; she had work to do. She must get Vittoria on her feet and married to the duke as soon as possible.

The dead are usually quickly forgotten because the living are too busy to mourn them for long. But not so Cardinal Montalto. He would never forget. He wrote down Francesco’s death in his little book of debts owed. Leafing through it, perhaps he remembered Jesus’ words from the book of John: “I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.”

Like a good gardener, he would prune, and cut, mercilessly eradicating the weeds by the roots.

Chapter 8

The Grieving Widow

Give her as much torture and grief as the glory and luxury
she gave herself. In her heart she boasts, ‘I sit as queen;
I am not a widow, and I will never mourn.’

–
Revelation 18:7

I
t is odd to think of a statue with psychic abilities, but the talking statue Pasquino often had an eerily correct foreknowledge of Roman events. This is likely because those who tacked up their poems on the wall behind him, leaned their cartoons against his base, or hung their witticisms from his neck were servants in the homes of Rome’s movers and shakers. Waiting silently in the shadows of a room for instructions to deliver a message or fetch some wine, servants overheard the most scurrilous conversations of those in the know.

No sooner was Francesco buried than placards were placed around Pasquino’s neck accusing Tarquinia and Marcello of planning Francesco’s murder so that the entire family could become rich when Vittoria married the duke. According to the chronicler, “It is certain that some of Vittoria’s relatives were suspected of helping to liberate her from her first husband out of ambition to achieve a greater fortune. But how much wiser would it have been to advise her to be content with her duty and her present situation, which would soon have reached the apex of greatness.”
¹
Unfortunately, the apex of greatness did not come quickly enough to save Francesco Peretti.

That April of 1581, Paolo Giordano spent most of his time in his family palace in the Campo de Fiori, in the heart of Rome. Periodically, he bounced out to his villa of Magnanapoli just outside the city. On the evening of Thursday, April 27, he sent a servant from Magnanapoli to Father Paolo Maletta, a priest at a little Roman church, San Biagio dell’Anello, who at some point in the past had heard the duke’s confession. The servant instructed Father Paolo to come out to the villa for an important discussion. The priest, wondering what on earth would make such an important lord send for him, immediately stopped what he was doing and stepped outside to find the duke’s carriage waiting for him.

At Magnanapoli, the duke informed Father Paolo that he was concerned for his eternal soul, though the reason for this concern was not that he had just ordered the assassination of an innocent young man. He was worried, he said, because he had made a vow to God that he would marry a certain young woman as soon as she became a widow. According to the priest’s later testimony, the duke said he had chosen Vittoria Accoramboni because he “had known her as a very chaste woman, most faithful to her husband, and God-fearing.”
²
Her husband having recently died as a result of God’s will, Paolo Giordano now needed to fulfill his vow immediately or face divine punishment. The priest must unite Paolo Giordano in holy matrimony with Vittoria Accoramboni.

Paolo Giordano instructed the priest to visit Vittoria, tell her of his vow, and ask her to be his wife. The wedding would be held before a priest, two witnesses, and a notary, as required by the Council of Trent. However, because of the unsavory circumstances of the marriage, the duke would not have the banns published, in violation of the council’s edicts.

In 1563, the Council of Trent had been called upon to address the perplexing issue of what made a marriage legal. Until the seventh century, most Catholic marriages were conducted by a justice of the peace, though they were often blessed afterward by a cleric. Only priests themselves were required to get married in a church, until clerical marriage was outlawed in the eleventh century.

As the Church took control over more and more aspects of secular life, by the year 1200 marriage had become a religious rite and an official sacrament symbolizing the permanent union of Christ and the Church. Many prelates, however, were uncomfortable with a sacrament that involved both money – in the form of the dowry – and sex. Oddly, until the Council of Trent there was no single required ceremony for the sacrament of marriage, the priests solemnizing the union according to local traditions.

The council not only provided a standard marriage rite but also sought to eliminate the troubling problem of clandestine marriages. Before the council, the Vatican stated that a legal marriage did not require a sacramental ceremony in a church. It was enough if the two parties promised themselves to each other, and the groom gave the bride a ring. Such a marriage was clandestine – secret – but also valid. Sometimes when parents announced they had found a perfect match for their daughter in the elderly widower next door, the girl replied curtly that she was already married, thank you very much, having contracted a clandestine union with the cute boy down the street.

Since divorce was not possible, certain people who were miserably married suddenly remembered they had made a clandestine marriage as teenagers, which rendered the current marriage null and void. With the absence of witnesses and no written registry of the event, no one could be sure
what
had happened. Bishops were appealed to, lawsuits were initiated, and the status of the children’s legitimacy came into question. To further complicate the issue, illegitimate children were not permitted to inherit their parents’ property, nor were bastard boys allowed to become priests.

To prevent these multi-generational messes from occurring with such harrowing frequency, the council refused to recognize as legal any clandestine marriages made from 1563 on. Every wedding must include a priest to perform the Tridentine marriage rite, two witnesses, and the registration of the marriage in the parish book.

The Council of Trent also required that marriages be publicly announced from the pulpit for three Sundays before the event. Before or after the sermon, the parish priest was to state in a loud voice the names of the bride and groom, the names of their parents, their places of birth, residence, age, and whether they had ever been married before, including the name of the woman’s deceased husband. If anyone knew of any impediment to the marriage, they had time to come forward and inform Church authorities.

The most common impediment was a legal one – that one of the parties was already married. Perhaps the groom had an unloved wife in another town. Before the three weeks were up, a relative having heard of the banns would come to speak to the parish priest about the impossibility of the new marriage. It was the priest’s responsibility to hold off on the wedding until he had fully investigated the claims. If he was uncertain of their validity, he would refer the matter to his bishop.

Former nuns and priests were not permitted to marry, as nuns were already married to Christ, and priests had received the sacrament of ordination which rendered them incapable of contracting marriage. There were impediments of blood, called consanguinity; the bride and groom should not be more closely related than third cousins. This was a problem in some Italian towns where everyone was third cousins or less, but Church dispensations for such marriages were usually easy to obtain for a price.

Another impediment had to do with in-laws and was known as
affinity.
Since wedlock was thought to unite two bodies into one, in-laws were considered to be blood relatives. A woman could not marry her sister’s husband’s brother, as this man was considered to be
her
brother, unless a dispensation was granted.

A moral impediment might be that one of the parties had made a vow of celibacy, that the couple had conducted a notorious adultery or lived in sin, or that the groom had murdered the husband of the bride in order to marry her himself. In the case of Paolo Giordano and Vittoria, when the parish priest read the name of the bride’s dead husband Francesco Peretti, murdered days earlier under mysterious circumstances, there was sure to be an outcry against the marriage because of the impediment. At the moment, it looked as if there would be no murder investigation at all, given Cardinal Montalto’s Christian resignation to Francesco’s demise, and Paolo Giordano didn’t want to stir up police interest by announcing the banns.

But any announcement of the upcoming marriage involved a far more serious problem than causing a police investigation. The noble house of de Medici would simply not stand for their relative, who had married the ruling grand duke’s sister, demeaning the entire family by wedding a woman of inferior rank. They would hoot and holler, and complain to the pope, and threaten every parish priest in Rome, until no one would dare to marry the couple. The king of Spain himself might get involved, letting it be known that no relative of his, no matter how distant, would be permitted to marry so far beneath himself.

Paolo Giordano and Vittoria were not alone in trying to bend the new rules. In the transition period following the Council of Trent, old customs died hard, and many couples hoping to avoid parental or social disapproval clung to the tradition of clandestine marriage hallowed by a thousand years of Catholic practice. Such a marriage would be valid “in the eyes of God,” according to the testimony of another 1581 would-be bridegroom, the Venetian Filippo da Canal. The young nobleman had similarly avoided the regulations of Trent and the resulting protests of his family to marry his mistress, a woman of “low birth, infamous morals, and a public whore.”
³
His ceremony included vows and hand-clasping in front of a crucifix, with God as their witness, followed by sex. Records indicate that despite vigorous legal maneuvering by the groom’s family to annul the marriage, the Church decided it was, in fact, valid.

The Council of Trent stated that if the contracting parties refused to publish the banns, the parish priest could not assist at their marriage except in certain cases. Deathbed marriages, for instance, did not require banns. And if the bride and groom convinced the local bishop that their families might try to thwart with violence a valid union, he might agree to dispense with the banns and allow the marriage to go forward. Perhaps Paolo Giordano might have justified his case with this clause, if he had not murdered the bride’s husband, which was a clear impediment.

Father Paolo could not have been happy to get involved in such a case. If he did not comply, the duke and his henchmen could make his life miserable, or snuff it out altogether. If he did comply, his bishop, Cardinal de Medici, Grand Duke Francesco of Tuscany, the pope, and the king of Spain could punish him severely. According to his later testimony, he pointed out to the duke that Vittoria was not of sufficient birth and quality to be the bride of an Orsini duke and a near relation of the de Medicis. Moreover, it was dangerous to go against the decrees of the holy Council of Trent. Then the priest delicately asked him if “there were not some impediment that would cause the marriage to be declared void.”
⁴

The duke angrily replied that there was no impediment, that he had made a vow and would fulfill it or bring God’s wrath upon himself. According to the priest, Paolo Giordano added “that he would do in this case what his conscience dictated what he was obliged to do, and that I should not intend to give him advice.”
⁵
Father Paolo reluctantly agreed to speak to Vittoria.

The following day, April 28, he went to the Accoramboni palazzo. The duke’s coach was idling in front of the building. Inside, the priest was led upstairs to wait in an antechamber outside Vittoria’s room, where he found her brother, the abbot Mario, who was also waiting. Paolo Giordano was with the Lady Vittoria, a servant explained, consoling her for the loss of her brother, Scipione. As the duke strode out of Vittoria’s room with her father, he summoned Mario.

“Signor Paolo Giordano came to my house to offer his condolences for our travails,” Mario would later testify, “and after this had been discharged, he told me that since it had pleased God to leave Signora Vittoria, my sister, a widow, that he had resolved to marry her, and I replied that this was too great a favor because we were not worthy to be his servants, let alone his relatives. And since I was not the head of the house, I didn’t have the authority to resolve it, and his Excellency replied that this was not worth worrying about, since it was for the honor and utility of our family. He said that he had sent for his confessor, who was already at our house, to speak to Lady Vittoria, and then Lord Signor Paolo immediately left.”
⁶

Father Paolo was ushered into Vittoria’s chamber, Mario beside him. She was crying, wearing black mourning weeds and a white veil. The priest began to console her on the death of her brother, but she made it clear that she was still mourning her husband, “and she said that she had loved him dearly.”
⁷

There must have been an uncomfortable silence before the priest broached the subject of the grieving widow’s immediate remarriage. Father Paolo said that as the duke’s confessor, he was responsible for his conscience, and Paolo Giordano “had made a vow to God, for the good that he has received, to take her as his wife.” Vittoria “replied only that she was not worthy of such favor, and that she would leave her honor and her soul in the hands of his Excellency.”
⁸
It was a passive,
tragic yes.

The priest suggested that he return the following day to hear Vittoria’s confession and obtain from her a definite reply. Father Paolo left the house, and as he walked back to his church Paolo Giordano’s coach pulled up next to him. The duke opened the door and descended, asking him if he had followed his instructions. Father Paolo replied that he had. The two men, seeing curious bystanders pricking up their ears, ended the conversation.

On Saturday, April 29, Father Paolo returned to confess Vittoria and “took from her a solemn vow of taking Signor Paulo as her consort.”
⁹
On April 30, only thirteen days after Francesco’s murder, a wedding ceremony was held, sort of. Paolo Giordano did not fulfill his earlier promise of having a priest perform the ceremony, with numerous witnesses attending and a notary standing nearby scratching the information on a sheet of parchment. Father Paolo had easily been bullied by the duke to take messages to Vittoria and render advice; but it seems he finally put his foot down when it came to performing the marriage itself, a ceremony that would surely have landed him in a dungeon with a resounding thud. He stayed resolutely in his church that day.